


The High Lady's return to her Court of Dreams

by StayStrongNWM



Series: A Court of Pain and Misery [2]
Category: A Court of Thorns and Roses Series - Sarah J. Maas
Genre: A Court of Pain and Misery, ACOTAR - Freeform, ACOWAR, Angst, F/M, Feyre Archeron - Freeform, Feyre comes back, Feyre is a mess, Feysand reunion, Hi hello welcome here have some pain, High Lord of the Night Court, I AM A MESS, Mates, Pain, Pain is nice, Please Don't Kill Me, Poetic pain, Rhysand - Freeform, Rhysand is a mess, Rhysand is sad, Sadness, So I am sad, So the whole fandom is sad, The Night Court, These series broke me, This Is Why We Can't Have Nice Things, acomaf, feyre - Freeform, high lady
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-11
Updated: 2017-06-11
Packaged: 2018-11-12 21:03:32
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,095
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11170035
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/StayStrongNWM/pseuds/StayStrongNWM
Summary: Feyre returns to The Night Court at last. They warned her. They'd told her it'd be bad. Really bad.Still, the sight of her mate broke a part inside of her that was one of the very few parts that hadn't been broken before.





	The High Lady's return to her Court of Dreams

**Author's Note:**

  * For [xxxxwitlee](https://archiveofourown.org/users/xxxxwitlee/gifts).



> Set after ACOMAF half into ACOWAR.
> 
> A (sort of / not really / could be) continuation of The High Lord's Personal Court of Nightmares
> 
> https://archiveofourown.org/works/11160723
> 
> Can also be read seperately.

_ She steps into the room slowly, careful not to make any noise too harsh. So dark, she thinks. It’s so dark. This not the room she remembers. It doesn’t smell like fresh night sky filled with stars, but rather - It smells like decomposing flowers, a damp, cold smell of solitude, of loneliness. Her heart clenches painfully in her chest. It’s not light - not open, not for sunlight or starlight alike, it’s closed off to all possible light; filled with darkness belonging more to his nightmares than to himself. _

 

_ They’d told her it would be bad. Really bad. Still, her breath hitches as she lets her eyes fall to the figure on the bed - their bed. Her eyes burn with unshed tears, and a fury that’s misplaced - for he didn’t tell her, he  _ **_did not tell her_ ** _ ; it was  _ **_this_ ** _ bad. Rhys’ skin looks pale as the sheets, his body all but a bag of bones hunched too far into a fetal position; and it takes her a couple retakes to assure herself that he is, in fact, still breathing.  _

 

_ She makes her way to him then, on trembling legs she doesn’t trust not to give out on her; so she holds on tightly to all the furniture she passes. Her hand clamps hard around the bedpost as she sees his face. Pale, so pale - with dark, painfully dark, bruise coloured bags under his closed eyes. She lays her hand softly on his cheek, jolts even though she tries not to, because Rhysand feels  _ **_so cold_ ** _. Feyre reminds herself again that his laboured, shallow breaths deem him alive - breathing. She wills herself to  _ **_feel_ ** _ his heartbeat, no matter how slow, how soft.  _

 

_ Feyre forces herself to seek out the bond then; deep inside of her. She pulls and pulls on the string to drag it out of the glamour placed on it, curses the handiwork. The bridge between them softly glows to life - bit by bit, but it’s not enough, so she  _ **_pulls_ ** _. Doesn’t realise it’s his name she’s repeatedly whispering, doesn’t see her mate’s eyes open slowly. Not until she hears him rasp her name. _

 

“Feyre”

 

_ “Rhysand” _

 

_ His voice travels in an uneasy shudder down her spine - so hoarse, so faint, as if he hasn’t spoken in  _ **_months_ ** _ , as if he’s been screaming for hours on end; as if he’s been  _ **_crying_ ** _. _

 

“Feyre” Rhysand croaks again, his eyes opening wider to drink in the sight of his mate, despite his best efforts to stop his body, his soul,  **himself** from reacting. He shakes with the effort. Because - it isn’t real. It. Is. Not. Real. She isn’t real.

 

_ She doesn’t realise that it was him -  _ **_Rhys_ ** _ \- who pushed her away, albeit softly, almost weakly. Her heart aches,  _ **_aches_ ** _ at his words. _

 

_ “Get away you cruel, wicked thing. Must you torture me so?” _

 

_ There’s no tears in Rhysand’s eyes, but Feyre  _ **_feels_ ** _ them, deep inside her bones. She sees it then, for her mate’s mental shields are abandoned, broken, cracked. It’s an easy way in, so easy she didn’t even know she lashed out.  _

 

_ A sob racks  through her body at his memories; she sees them before the King of Hybern, watches through Rhys’ eyes as their ‘bond’ got broken, sees Tamlin taking her away - away from her mate. _

 

_ Then come the months she’d been gone - Feyre dry heaves - fights to keep the contents of her stomach down. Rhysand falling to his knees, night after night, black and blue bruises on his inked skin. Rhysand screaming. Rhysand crying. Rhysand clawing at his face with his own hands. Rhysand waking - shouting - bathed in sweat, tangled in sheets - suffocating, choking on air - after plaguing nightmares. Rhysand passing out. Rhysand having visions - visions of her - realising it wasn’t real. Rhysand not eating, not leaving his room - _

 

_ She stops then. Returns to her body, sobbing, tears streaming down her face, and her hands - shaking - once more reaching for her mate.  _

 

_ Her mate, chanting words incomprehensible first, but clearer once his voice gets louder. _

 

_ “This isn’t real - It isn’t real - It isn’t real - She isn’t real” _

 

_ Her Death Incarnate, her Night Triumphant, her High Lord - a small man, broken, on her bed. His magnificent wings are so saggy, still - she fears for rotten flesh, decay of muscles. Feyre fears he might never fly again - and, he needed to fly. Her mate, her husband, her  _ **_love_ ** _ ; he needed to fly - to feel the wind, and the warmth of the sun, and smell the high above air of Velaris. _

 

_ “I’m real,” she whispers - louder then: “I’m real. I’m real. I’m here. I’m real” _

 

_ Feyre breaks, for her mate, for herself. _

 

His mate. His beautiful, wonderful mate. Here. Real. Her weeping eyes so tired, so exhausted, but fierce. Ablaze with the determination to get through to him. Real. **Real** .  **_Real_ ** .

 

Feyre’s skin was soft against his, but so pale again - as if the high sun of Velaris never graced her features. Rhysand could feel her power thrum in her veins. He kissed her - because he didn’t know what else to do - because it was the only thing he  _ could _ do. They cried, their tears mixing on their cheeks, and he couldn’t hold her close enough.

 

Rhysand bedded her then. Slowly, as if he was scared he’d break her, or as if he himself would shatter; he didn’t know. He cried again when they joined, his tears hot on his skin, and she cried with him. 

 

“Never again” He whispered, repeatedly. “Never, never - never. Never again”

 

_ Feyre trembled in her lover’s arms, the months of separation finally allowed to break down on her. Her exhaustion overruled only by the want, the need for her mate. _

 

_ “Never,” She whispered against his lips, voice cracking. “Never again” _

 

“I love you,” Rhysand could  **feel** the bond again, feel it bloom, glow, thrum deep inside his chest. “I love you. I love you. I love you”

 

She said it back then, the moment he came undone. She was here, and she was real, and  _ she loved him _ .

 

_ “Rhysand,” She cried, her hand on his heart - alive. They were alive. Together. _

_ “I love you - I love you too” _

 

He kissed her again. Again, and again. Held her through the night, pressed to his chest where he could feel her breathing against his skin, and feel her heartbeat in her neck.  **Feel** her being here, and knów her being  _ real _ .

 

Rhysand allowed another tear to escape, not because of his pain, but for his relief. He pressed a kiss to the crown of his mate’s head, and said:

 

“Never again, I promise” 


End file.
